THE D'ARTAGNAN AND THE HEDVIG SOPHIA
Loud roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge poured.
There was a gale from the S.W. blowing over the southern part of
England, on November 11, 1877. The barometer had been low, but the
'centre of depression' was still advancing, and was probably over the
Straits of Dover about the middle of the day. Perhaps more is known
now than formerly of the path of the storm and the date of its arrival
on these coasts, and more is also known of the pleasanter but rarer
anti-cyclonic systems. Nevertheless, we are still in the dark as to
the cause which originates those two different phenomena, and brings
them from the east and the west. The secrets of Nature belong to Him
who holds the winds in His fist and the sea in the hollow of His hand.
In the seaboard towns of the S.E. coast the houses shook before the
blast, and now and then the tiles crashed to the pavement, and the
fierce rain squalls swept through the deserted streets, as the gale
'whistled aloft his tempest tune.' To read of this makes every
fireside seem more comfortable, but somehow it also brings the thought
to many a heart 'God help those at sea to-night!'
In the great roadstead of the Downs, among the pilots and the captains,
there were anxious hearts that day. There were hundreds of ships at
anchor, of many nations, all outward bound, and taking refuge in the
comparative shelter of the Downs. Those vessels had everything made as
snug as possible to meet the gale, and were mostly riding to two
anchors and plunging bows under. Here and there a vessel was dragging
and going into collision with some other vessel right astern of her; or
perhaps slipping both her anchors just in time to avoid the crash; or
away to the southward could be seen in the rifts of the driving rain
squalls, a large ship drifting, with anchors gone and sails blown into
ribbons.
Deal beach was alive with the busy crowds of boatmen either launching
or beaching their luggers. The smaller boats, the galley punts, which
are seven feet beam and about twenty-eight feet in length, found the
wind and sea that day too much for them, especially in the afternoon.
They had been struggling in the Downs all day with two or three reefs,
and in the 'smokers' with 'yardarm taken,' but in the afternoon the
mercury in the barometers began to jump up and
First rise after low
Foretells a stronger blow.
Then the galley punts had to come ashore, and only the luggers and the
'cats' were equal to cruising among the storm-tossed shipping,
'hovelling' or on the look-out for a job.
Some of the vessels might need a pilot to take them to Margate Roads or
northwards, or some might require a spare yard, or men to man the
pumps, or an anchor and chain, the vessels in some cases riding to
their last remaining anchor--or perhaps their windlass had given way or
the hawse pipe had split, and in that case their own chain cable would
cut them down to the water's edge in a few hours. To meet these
various needs of the vessels, the great luggers were all day being
continuously beached and launched, and it was hard to say which of the
two operations was most perilous to themselves or most fascinating to
the spectator. Once afloat they hovered about, on the wing as it were,
among the vessels, and from the beach it could be seen how crowded with
men they were, and how admirably they were handled.
The skill of the Deal boatmen is generally supposed to be referred to
in the lines:
Where'er in ambush lurk the fatal sands,
They claim the danger, proud of skilful bands;
Fearless they combat every hostile wind,
Wheeling in mazy tracks with course inclined.
The passage has certainly a flavour of the Goodwins but at any rate the
sea-bird does not sweep to the raging summit of a wave, or glide more
easily from its seething crest down the dark deep blue slope to its
windless trough, or more safely than the Deal boatmen in their luggers.
Richard Roberts had been all that day afloat in the Downs in his
powerful 'cat,' the Early Morn. It was this boat, some of my readers
may remember, which picked up, struggling in the water, twenty-four of
the passengers of the Strathclyde, when she was run down off Dover by
the Franconia, some years ago. But the gale increasing towards
evening, Roberts, who had got to leeward too much, could not beat home,
and he had to run away before the wind and round the North Foreland to
Margate. Thence he took train, and leaving his lugger in safety,
reached Deal about nine p.m., just as the flash from the Gull
lightship, and then the distant boom of a gun and again another flash,
proclaimed there was a ship ashore on the sands. And through the wild
rain gusts he saw the flare of a vessel in distress on the Brake
Sand--God have mercy on them! for well he knew the hard and rocky
nature of that deadly spot.
Then rang out wildly above the storm-shriek the summons from the iron
throat of the lifeboat bell, 'Man the lifeboat! Man the lifeboat!'
The night was dark, the ponderous surf thundered on the shingle, and
there could be seen the long advancing lines of billows breaking into
white masses of foam; and outside that there was only the blackness of
sea and sky, and the tossing lights and flares and signals calling for
help. 'No lanterns could be kept lit that night, sir! Blowed out they
was, and we had to feel our way in the lifeboat.'
And you might hear in the bustle and din of quick preparation the
boatmen's shouts, 'Ease her down, Bill! just to land her bow over the
full!' 'Man that haul-off warp! she'll never get off against them seas
unless you man that haul-off warp! Slack it off!' And the coxswain
shouts, 'All hands aboard the lifeboat! Cut the lanyard!'
Then the trigger flies loose and the stern chain which holds the
lifeboat in her position on the beach smokes through the 'ruffles,' or
hole in the iron keel through which it runs, as the mighty lifeboat
gains speed in her rush down the steep declivity of the beach. As she
nears the sea, faster still she slides and shoots over the well-greased
skids, urged forwards by her own weight and pulled forwards by the
crew, who grasp the haul-off warp moored off shore a long way, and at
last, as a warrior to battle, with a final bound she meets the shock of
the first great sea. And then she vanishes into the darkness. God
speed her on her glorious errand!
Close-reefed mizzen and double-reefed storm foresail was the canvas
under which the lifeboat that night struggled with the storm, to reach
the vessel on the Brake Sand. 'She did fly along, sir, that night, but
we were too late! The flare went out when we were half-way!' Alas!
alas! while the gallant crew were flying on the wings of mercy and of
hope to the rescue, the vessel broke up and vanished with all hands in
the deep.
The lifeboat cruised round and round in the breakers, but all in vain.
The crew gazed and peered into the gloom and listened, and then they
shouted all together, but they could hardly hear each other's voices,
and there was no answer; all had perished, and rescue close at hand!
Suddenly there was a lift in the rain, and between them and the land
they saw another flare, 'Down with the foresheet! All hands to the
foresheet! Now down with the mizzen sheet!' cried the coxswain, and
ten men flew to the sheets. As the lifeboat luffed she lay over to her
very bearings, beating famously to windward on her second errand of
mercy.
It was about midnight, and there was 'a terrible nasty sea,' and a
great run under the lifeboat as she neared the land; and the coxswains
made out the dim form of a large vessel burning her flare, with masts
gone and the sea beating over her.
Once again the lifeboat was put about, and came up into the wind's eye,
the foresail was got down and the other foresail hoisted on the other
side and sheeted home, sails, sheets and blocks rattling furiously in
the gale, and forwards on the other tack into the spume and sea-drift
the lifeboat 'ratched.' Between them and the vessel that was burning
her signal of distress, the keen eyes of the lifeboatmen discerned an
object in the sea, 'not more than fifty fathoms off, as much as ever it
was, it was that bitter dark!' Another wreck! 'Let us save them at
any rate!' said the storm-beaten lifeboatmen, as a feeble cry was heard.
The anchor was dropped. The lifeboat was then veered down on her cable
a distance of eighty fathoms, and the object in the sea was found to be
a forlorn wreck. Her lee deck bulwarks were deep under water, and even
her weather rail was low down to the sea.
The wreck was a French brig, the D'Artagnan, as was afterwards
ascertained, and on coming close it was seen her masts were still
standing, but leaning over so that her yardarms touched the water.
Nothing could live long on her deck, which was half under water and
swept by breakers.
In the main rigging were seen small objects, which were found to be the
crew, and in answer to the shouts of the lifeboatmen they came down and
crawled or clung along the sea-beaten weather rail. Half benumbed with
terror and despair and lashed by ceaseless waves, they slowly came
along towards the lifeboat, and the state of affairs at that moment was
described by one of the lifeboatmen as, 'Yes, bitter dark it were, and
rainin' heavens hard, with hurricane of wind all the time.'
The wreck lay with her head facing the mainland, from which she was
about a mile distant, and which bore by compass about W.N.W. The wind
and the strong tide were both in the same direction, and if the
lifeboat had anchored ahead of the vessel she would have swung
helplessly to leeward and been unable to reach the vessel at all. So,
also, had she gone under the wreck's stern to leeward, the same tide
would have swept her out of reach, to say nothing of the danger of
falling masts. It was impossible to have approached her to windward,
as one crash against the vessel's broadside in such a storm and sea
would have perhaps cost the lives of all the crew.
They therefore steered the lifeboat's head right at the stern of the
vessel, as well for the reasons given as also because the cowering
figures in the rigging could be got off no other way. They could not
be taken to windward nor to leeward, and therefore by the stern was the
only alternative.
By managing the cable of the lifeboat and by steering her, or by
setting a corner of her foresail, she would sheer up to the stern of
the wreck just as the fishing machine called an otter rides abreast of
the boat to which it is fast. The lifeboat's head was, therefore,
pointed at the stern of the wreck, which was leaning over hard to
starboard, and the lifeboatmen shouted to the crew, some in the rigging
and some clutching the weather toprail, to 'come on and take our line.'
But there was no response; only in the darkness they could see the men
in distress slowly working their way towards the stern of the wreck.
The position of the lifeboat was very dangerous. The sea was raging
right across her, and it was only the sacred flame of duty and of pity
in the hearts of the daring crew of the lifeboat that kept them to
their task. The swell of the sea was running landwards, and the 'send'
of each great rolling wave, just on the point of breaking, would shoot
the lifeboat forwards till her stem and iron forefoot would strike the
transom and stern of the wreck with tremendous force. The strain and
spring of the cable would then draw back the lifeboat two or three
boats' lengths, and then another breaker, its white wrath visible in
the pitchy darkness, would again drive the lifeboat forwards and
upwards as with a giant's hand, and then crash! down and right on to
the stern and even right up on the deck of the half-submerged vessel.
Sometimes even half the length of the lifeboat was driven over the
transom and on the sloping deck of the wreck, off which she grated back
into the sea to leewards.
What pen can describe the turmoil, the danger, and the appalling
grandeur of the scene, now black as Erebus, and again illumined by a
blaze of lightning? And what pen can do justice to the stubborn
courage that persevered in the work of rescue in spite of the
difficulties which at each step sprang up?
It was now found that the crew in distress were French. In their
paralysed and perished condition they could not make out what our men
wanted them to do, and they did not make fast the lines thrown them.
Nor had they any lines to throw, as their tackle and running gear were
washed away, nor could they understand the hails of the lifeboatmen.
Hence the task of saving them rested with the Deal men alone.
The Frenchmen, when they saw the lifeboat rising up and plunging
literally upon their decks with terrific force, held back and
hesitated, clinging to the weather rail, where their position was most
perilous. A really solid sea would have swept all away, and every two
or three minutes a furious breaker flew over them. Something had to be
done to get them, and to get them the men in the lifeboat were
determined.
Now the fore air-box of the lifeboat has a round roof like a tortoise's
back, and there is a very imperfect hand-hold on it.
Indeed, to venture out on this air-box in ordinary weather is by no
means prudent, but on this night, when it was literally raked by
weighty seas sufficient in strength to tear a limpet from its grip, the
peril of doing so was extreme, but still, out on that fore air-box,
determined to do or die, crept Richard Roberts, at that time the second
coxswain of the lifeboat, leading the forlorn hope of rescue, and not
counting his life dear to him. Up as the lifeboat rose, and down with
her into the depths, still Roberts held on with the tenacity of a
sailor's grasp.
As the lifeboat surged forwards on the next sea, held behind by his
comrades' strong arms, out on the very stem he groped his way, and then
he shouted, and behind him all hands shouted, 'Come, Johnny! Now's
your time!' There's a widespread belief among our sailor friends that
the expression 'Johnny' is a passport to a Frenchman's heart. At any
rate, seeing Roberts on the very stem and hearing the shouts, the
nearly exhausted Frenchmen came picking their dangerous way and
clinging to the weather rail one by one till they grasped or rather
madly clutched at Roberts' outstretched arms. 'Hold on, mates!' he
cried, 'there's a sea coming! Don't let them drag me overboard!' And
then the Frenchmen grasped Roberts' arms and chest so fiercely that his
clothes were torn and he himself marked black and blue. Then rang out
as each poor sailor was grasped by Roberts, 'Hurrah! I've got him!
Pass him along, lads!'--and the poor fellows were rescued and welcomed
by English hearts and English hands. 'We never knowed if there was any
more, but at any rate we saved five,' said the lifeboatmen.
Having rescued this crew, all eyes were now turned to the vessel that
had for some hours been burning her signals of distress.
It was by this time four o'clock on this winter morning, and the crew
of the lifeboat were, to use their own words, 'nearly done.' They also
noticed that the lifeboat was much lower than usual in the water, but
neither danger, nor hardships, nor fatigue can daunt the spirits of the
brave, and their courage rose above the terror of the storm, and they
forgot the crippled condition of the lifeboat--both of her bows being
completely stove in by the force of her blows against the deck and the
transom of the French brig--and they responded gallantly to the
coxswain's orders of 'Up anchor and set the foresail!' and they made
for the flare of the fresh wreck for which they had been originally
heading.
The signals of distress were from a Swedish barque, the Hedvig Sophia.
She had parted her anchors in the Downs, and had come ashore in three
fathoms of water, which was now angry surf; her masts were gone, but as
the rigging was not cut adrift, they were still lying to leeward in
wild confusion. She had heeled over to starboard, and her weather rail
being well out of the water, afforded some shelter to the crew; but her
sloping decks were washed and beaten by the waves that broke over her
and it was all but impossible to walk on them.
The lifeboat's anchor was dropped, and again they veered down, but this
time it was possible to get to windward, and by reason of the wreckage
it was impossible to get to leeward. There was an English pilot on
board, who helped to carry out the directions given from the lifeboat,
and lines were quickly passed from the wreck.
It was seen the captain's wife was on board, for the grey morning was
breaking, and as the lifeboat rose on the crest of a wave, after the
crew and just before the captain, who came last, the poor lady was
passed into the lifeboat.
She only came with great reluctance and after much persuasion, as the
deck of the lifeboat was covered with three inches of water and she
seemed to be sinking. When the Swedish captain came on board, while
the spray was flying sky-high over them, could he truly be said to be
taken 'on board'?
'Here's a pretty thing to come in--full of water!' said the captain.
'Well,' replied Roberts, 'we've been in it all night, and you won't
have to wait long.'
The lifeboatmen then got up anchor, and with twelve Swedes, five
Frenchmen, and their own crew of fifteen made for home. Deep plunged
the lifeboat, and wearily she rose at each sea, but still she struggled
towards Deal, as the wounded stag comes home to die. Her fore and
after air-boxes were full of water, for a man could creep into the rent
in her bows, and she had lost much of her buoyancy. Still she had a
splendid reserve in hand, from the air-boxes ranged along and under her
deck, and thus fighting her way with her freight of thirty-two souls,
at last she grounded on the sands off Deal, and the lifeboatmen leaped
out and carried the rescued foreigners literally into England from the
sea, where they were received as formerly another ship-wrecked stranger
in another island 'with no little kindness.'
The next day the storm was over; sea and sky were bathed in sunshine,
and the swift-winged breezes just rippled the surface of the deep into
the countless dimples of blue and gold.
[Greek] _Pontiôn te kumatôn_
_Anerithmon gelasma_
was the exact description, more easily felt than translated; but close
to the North Bar buoy, in deep water, and just outside the Brake Sand,
there projected from out of the smiling sea the grim stern spectacle of
the masts of a barque whose hull lay deep down on its sandy bed. She
it was which had been burning flares for help the night before in vain,
and she had been beaten off the Brake Sand and sank before the lifeboat
came. She was a West India barque, with a Gravesend pilot on board,
and his pilot flag was found hoisted in the unusual position of the
mizzen topmast head, a fact which was interpreted by the Deal boatmen
as a message--a last message to his friends, and as much as to say,
'It's me that's gone.'
But the brave men in the lifeboat did their best, and by their
extraordinary exertions, although they did not reach this poor lost
barque in time, yet by God's blessing on their skill and daring they
did save, Swedes and Frenchmen, seventeen souls that night from a
watery grave.